


Aid of Nemesis

by BigBellRings



Series: Pray to Lady Luck [2]
Category: John Wick (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Canon-Typical Violence, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, M/M, Sequel to The Devil Lives in Derbent
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-25
Updated: 2019-07-27
Packaged: 2020-07-19 17:49:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,617
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19978069
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BigBellRings/pseuds/BigBellRings
Summary: No matter where fortune leads them, John and Santino can't seem to catch a break; not when the wolves are on their scents.





	1. Preparation

**Author's Note:**

> This is a sequel to the previous work in this series, The Devil Lives in Derbent, so I recommend reading it. Also, the term Sabbath is brought up often; it's a religious day for Jews in which they can't work, which means they can't travel, read, write, or conduct business on/off consecrated grounds.

The stop before Jerusalem is when John and Santino leave the train, both too paranoid to stay in such a confined area, especially when anybody could be watching them. Santino goes to the payphone, keeping his face low as he pushes through the crowd. As Santino buys a call with the small amount of cash they have, John leaves for the washroom, looking for anybody who might have heard the news; a week is enough to be outcasted in the underworld.

When he enters the bathroom, ignoring the graffiti and smell of piss, John finds that he’s alone. He looks at himself in the mirror, hair knotted and clinging to his skin, suit wrinkled and stained with sweat. He can almost hear the Director’s voice, see her reflection as she calls him pathetic for letting things get this bad. He turns on the sink and washes his face, drying himself with his own sleeve. The door opens and closes with a heavy thud, a stoic man walking inside and blocking it. John has seen him before, another servant of the High Table.

Without much ceremony, the man reaches for his pocket and produces his knife with a tight grip. John rushes to him, elbow brought to his stomach. The man lurches and brings his hand down, stabbing between John’s shoulder blades. John fends off the urge to shout (any attention to himself is a risk) and lifts a knee to the man’s groin. The man falls with a gasp and John drags him to the sink, setting his chin on the cool edge. John brings his elbow down on the man and listens to the crack; he hides the man in a stall with a blank expression. From his pocket, a small coin with the High Table’s emblem falls to the floor. He reaches for it/

He comes back to Santino, knife and coin in his pocket. Giovanni sniffs him, tilting his head at the smell of blood. It then occurs to John that Giovanni isn’t used to the coppery smell, that somebody isn’t as familiar with it as he is.

Santino gives John a concerned look, still talking into the phone, “I understand. Yes, we’ll keep our guards up. Ciao, Sofia.” He hangs up the phone, fingers tapping on it as he thinks.

“What’d she say?”

“It’s Friday; the Continential is only consecrated tomorrow. She’ll come then. If we want a moment to breathe, I suggest we find a hotel, away from the city.” Santino plans aloud, hand thrown over his lips in musing.

“Servants of the Table already know. Had a run-in with one of them.”

“They would be the first to know. But, do you think the High Table told Administration, made them send out the warning?” 

John shakes his head, “All they know now is that you’re not back. Not the rest.” They both know what John means by the rest. That would surely make the High Table send the underworld against them if running off isn’t reason enough. “It’ll take a few days for them to find out.”

“Then we’ll be safe to stay at the Continential long enough for Sofia to come and help us”

They leave the station in a hurry, Giovanni right behind them.

-  
The hotel, a cheap, two-story place on the outskirts of the city, is actually nice. The room they have is clean and quiet, with no loud neighbours or cars passing outside. It even has air-conditioning; a weak attempt at fighting the humidity outside. They’re in the bathroom, John seated on the closed toilet and Santino standing in the shower, trying his best at playing doctor with John’s instruction. He’s too rough, but whether that’s him being sleep-deprived or inexperienced is anybody’s guess. It could also be that he’s using an emergency kit that he bought from the nearby convenience store and beer from the hotel’s lobby. John is breathing heavily, slamming his fist into the sink beside him whenever Santino’s hand slips.

“Keep going. I’m fine.”

“Here, drink this. It should help you.” Santino brings the beer to John’s lips, staying still as he drinks. He takes away the bottle and John watches him stare at it with flushed features.

“Thanks.”

“You’re welcome,” Santino clears his throat and continues stitching, “a Marines man.”

“What?” John doesn’t realize he has been gripping at the edge of the sink, but his stinging palms and whitened knuckles pull him to reality.

“Your tattoo, John. It’s the slogan of the US Marines, right?”

John raises his eyebrows in surprise, “How’d you know?”

“My father thought that if Gianna and I learned enough about America, our immigration there would be more seamless. We still had our accents, though, so it didn’t matter. People are cruel.” The room grows silent because John hears him so achingly clear. In the Marines, John knew a man; he couldn’t have been older than twenty and he wore a turban. The drill instructor was strict to John and Marcus but they never had to be shoved in a dryer half-naked or wear another recruit’s underwear. John didn’t want to, either, so he kept quiet.

Sometimes, he wonders what scares him more; the apathy of the Director or the aggression of the Marines.

“Yeah. They are.” He pushes through the rest of his stitches, the entire bottle of beer being emptied by the end. The room is dark as they leave the bathroom; John almost trips over Giovanni, who is sleeping in front of the television. John opens the bedside lamp. “I’ll stand to watch for the night.” He sits upright on the edge of the bed, facing the window.

“No, you need to rest.”

“Slept on the subway.”

“For an hour, Even if you do stand watch, I won’t go to bed. You have a presence that begs one to be alert,” John turns to him and Santino adds, “it’s a compliment.”

John doesn’t say it. That he wants to stay awake since some part of him is still obedient to the divinity of the High Table, is still the servant that stands guard every night for one member or another. Instead, he shrugs, “Then don’t.”

He regrets it when he feels the bed dip behind him, but the warmth of Santino too far for comfort.

-  
The Jerusalem Continental is much more opulent than John remembers, though he’s only been there once during a task to kill an enemy of the Bratva. It’s built off of a repurposed synagogue, with the original brickwork peering from beneath the white patterns. Before the entrance, which was nothing more than an empty archway, the separating threshold of the underworld and civility, is a statue of Lady Justice, Nemesis kneeling at her feet. When he steps onto the carpet, a departure from the sand covering the stairway, his posture changes. He straightens his slight hunch, keeps a hand on the small of Santino’s back in the way a bodyguard would, and raises his chin to intimidate. The Baba Yaga returns to him naturally, because it never truly left.

The woman behind the front desk gives them both an indifferent look, “Shabbat shalom, Mr. D’Antonio. Mr. Wick. What would you gentlemen like?”

“A room,” John says, the edge in his voice apparent as he shows the servant’s stolen coin, “and the doctor.”

“Gladly. He’ll be with you shortly. How many nights?”

“Two.” Any longer and the two would be sitting ducks waiting for their executioners.

The woman reaches under the counter and hands John a copper key, “Our finest, aside from the manager’s establishment. Will the dog be accompanying you?”

John watches Giovanni sniffing his shoes, biting at the shoelaces, “Yes.”

Their room is common for a Contential suite; draped with riches and jewels native to the country. It’s spacious, with a King bed and a view of the busy marketplace bellow, an oblivion of faces that Derbent’s hamlets couldn’t compare to. John is seated on a stool, the afternoon sun the only light, an orange glow, in the room. The doctor’s nimble hands sitch the stab wound, properly this time. He doesn’t speak for their session, keeping his eyes on the floor as he leaves them with a bottle of pills for the pain and a solemn goodbye.

The door closes and the stress on John’s face disappears, the harsh lines smoothing. He rubs his shoulder, “We’re not safe here.”

“Obviously. But we need to wait for Sofia; once she comes, things will get significantly less gruesome,” Santino answers, “and we can’t leave. Assassins are everywhere, especially in the holy land.” He lies on the bed closest to John, legs hanging off the edge.

“I’m gonna speak with the treasurer here. Get us some guns for the road.” John goes to stand, but Santino’s hand stops him.

“Stop moving. Your stitches could get undone and I believe the doctor already senses something off with us.” He explains and John gives a single shake of his head.

“Gone through worse.” John reaches for his shirt underneath the bed, shrugging it on over the wound, the bloody spots unwashed. “We aren’t staying long; might as well get this over with.”

“Stubbornness will be your downfall,” Santino says, interrupted by the whimpers of a restless dog. He looks down at him with a bemused expression. “I suppose I’ll come with; Giovanni hasn’t gone on a walk since Derbent.”

People in the Contential are respectful of them, lowering their heads and speaking softly as they look downward, though John assumes it’s because he isn’t the most approachable man around. At least Santino has some form of civility that attracts people, looking as pristine in a coat covered in dirt as he would a suit. John, on the other hand, always looks like he’s ready for a war. It’s almost as if, when he is the Baba Yaga, he’s closer to an animal without a notion of laws than John. Though, there wasn’t much difference until Derbent.

During their way back to the suite, the manager approaches them in the lobby, most likely called by the front desk. He’s a towering man, John needs to strain his neck looking up to meet him, with a gentle demeanour. He introduces himself as Ishmael, “I’ve been managing for three years and already I’m housing two of the underworld’s finest. I hope you’ve enjoyed our services so far, though you both look famished. Perhaps, you two would enjoy dinner in my restaurant later today?”

Food. The two have been running off without anything to eat, so the prospect of a hot meal sounds great. But the risks are too high; the food could be drugged, or the invitation could be bait. For all John knew, Administration could have sent the warning out when he was standing guard last night. “We’d love to.” Santino replies.

“L’chaim. And, please, put in a good word for me and the hotel to the High Table.” Ishmael laughs. So that’s why everybody was respectful; the authority, or the illusion of it. John and Santino had an air of power surrounding them, albeit constructed on lies and the fragile state of their time. Ishmael is even willing to give them free meals, just so that the elite would look favourably on him.

Santino nods and quickly walks off with John, “Mio Dio, what a poor man. Still clinging to the High Table. At least we’ve got something to eat for the night.”

“Yeah,” John says after a long pause.

-  
Despite planning to stay for two nights, the men pack their things the following morning (which is tossing their guns and pill bottles into a duffle bag) and leave quickly, looking down and shoulders pressed together like soldiers heading through the battlefield, one covered in champagne flutes and paintings of angels. Still, Santino protests, “We need to wait for Sofia.” 

“She should’ve come yesterday.”

“She must’ve been getting her affairs in order. We need to wait. Didn’t the High Table teach you not to run into the fray without a plan?” John clutches the strap of the duffle bag as he considers this, then continues walking faster.

“We’ll go to Morocco. Can’t waste any more time.”

“Then what about Ishmael? He’ll know something is wrong with us; that I shouldn’t be here. Cue a twisted catalyst; the High Table will find out about the rest. Why else would we be running, after all?” They both stand in the lobby, looking away from the intrigued passersby.

John takes a breath and speaks in a much slower, softer voice, “Okay. Call Sofia. See where she is.”

“Thank you.” Santino steps to the front desk, leaving John behind to stare at the brickwork of the wall with Giovanni. Suddenly, the dog starts barking wildly, causing some men and women to give John an annoyed glance, before realizing it’s him and looking away. Giovanni runs off, John chasing behind.

John stops on the marble steps, greeted to the sight of Giovanni barking between two Belgian Malinois; their sharp barks and aggression could be taught only by another assassin. He hears a hoarse voice, “Christ, John. The second you told me to give you Santino’s address, I knew it’d bite me in the ass.”

“Hey, Sofia.”

“Don’t try to small talk. I’m here for Santino.” Sofia whistles for her dogs through tight lips. They come to her side without a second thought. John gestures behind him.

“Contential’s deconsecrated.” Sofia passes him regardless, Lerna and Orthrus baring their teeth at him.

“Apologies, Jonathan. She isn’t enthusiastic to be out of Morocco during such stressful times.” Winston explains. John stand silent, unsure of how to reply; he hasn’t seen Winston since he was still called Jardani. 

Finally, he settles on saying, “Morning.” Winston smiles and walks to the Contential, Charon giving him a curt nod.

“I suggest you extend your stay. Being a guest while the Jerusalem Continential is fully consecrated is an honor, and quite the story.” Winston says.

Charon explains, “It won’t be fully consecrated yet, Winston. You still need to convince the High Table.”

“Ah, semantics. Now, I’ve got to sign-in. Hope to see you soon, Jonathan.” John follows them to the front desk, meeting with Santino and Sofia. They’re talking as friends, exchanging small smiles and laughs. For a moment, they don’t talk about Derbent, or John, or the High Table. John hasn’t ever seen assassins being friendly with one another, unless they needed something, of course.

“Hey there, Giovanni.” Sofia bends down and she pets the dog who opens his mouth and wags the stump of his tail. “He’s seen better days, huh? Must’ve slept the whole ride here.” 

“Yes. It’s odd when hunting dogs get hurt; they become so quiet.”

Sofia stands again and looks from Santino to John, “We should talk somewhere less crowded. Someone could be listening.” Sofia guides the two to the lobby elevator, asks Santino where their room is, then continues. “How long do you think we have before you’re excommunicated?”

“If the High Table wanted to, they would’ve done it already,” John answers, “don’t know why they haven’t.” The elevator doors open and the three go to the suite; John opens the door with more force than necessary. Sofia whistles, a low, deliberate sound, as she steps into the room.

“It’s best if we don’t ask,” Lerna and Orthrus rush behind her and sit facing the door, “let’s just take this as a miracle and decide where you guys should go.” 

John says, “Can’t stay here. Deconsecrated.”

“Not with Winston here; the High Table planned for him to come weeks ago with consecrated grounds as an accommodation. Lucky you.”

“Where should we go?”

“For now, staying on consecrated grounds would be best, especially if the High Table is holding off. I’ll tell you both when to leave with me; I have a place in Egypt, mostly for protection if the tension in Morocco gets high. My friend there’s tied to a marker. Should keep silent about you two.”

“Sofia, you could get hurt if you’re caught harbouring us. It’s already enough to be giving us a safe house.” Santino replies with a slight frown.

“You’ve done more than enough for me; ‘s the least I could do,” Sofia says, waving a hand to the couch as she sits in the armchair opposite of it. While not being the owner of the room, Sofia still treats it as such; the nerve of a leader, or a woman with nothing to lose. “What’s your plan for now?”

“We’re pretending to be part of the High Table. Nobody here would dare step up to the leader of the Camorra and his guard.”

“Good strategy; we shouldn’t rely on it for too long, though. Three days; everything will be ready then.”

John’s hands tighten on his knees, “That’s too long.”

Santino rests a hand on his shoulder, feeling the muscles beneath his palm move, “Thank you.”

“You aren’t in the position to make complaints, John. Lerna. Orthrus. Come.” Sofia orders as she stands up, giving the suite a final glance before leaving, the sound of her heels and the dogs’ nails fading behind the door.

Santino turns to John, who is still surveying the bed, the phone, the window, for anything suspicious, Giovanni comes to the men, placing his head between them, looking for whoever will pet him first.

“You’re anxious.”

“No.”

“Yes, you are. You’re very transparent for being an ex-servant of the High Table,” John meets Santino’s gaze, “good. Those pricks are unbearable.”

“‘S how we were raised,” John says abruptly; Santino gives a confused expression, opens his mouth, then closes it.

-  
It’s numbing, looking out the window at night. Watching thousands of people living only to cook dinner, or to see their kids, or to do anything that’s simple yet unattainable to John. When he was a kid and the Director would choose him to perform in a ballet, there was always a moment in which he would look out into the audience and wonder; what if he were in one of those seats. What if the world wasn’t spent living in crowded walls, praying in a bedroom with three other kids, shaking under a thin blanket. He wouldn’t be the Baba Yaga, but yet, that’s all he is.

“We should talk.” Santino’s sitting on the bed, Giovanni snoring under it.

“Okay,” John turns from the window, “about?”

“You don’t have to be defensive.”

“What?”

“I’m not the Adjudicator, or the Elder, or Gianna, or the man I was five years ago,” Santino pauses for John to respond, and when he doesn’t, he adds, “living alone for so long matures a man. I understand what it’s like to feel scared, to be up against the world. Talk to me.”

They sit in silence then, because Santino just poured his heart out and John is still so new to the concept. But, he tries, “Sorry. Just… it’s hard to talk a lot of the time. Because I don’t wanna say something wrong, out of turn." John looks away because getting welled up, and so suddenly, isn’t something he’s ever done easily. Santino shifts to the side, giving John some space on the bed with him. "Won't cry, promise."

"No, that's okay, John. I don’t mind.” Santino rests his head on John’s shoulder, the weight enough to keep the thoughts of the ballet stage at bay. “We’re here together, and if we have any hope of survival, we can’t act like fools. We can’t turn on each other”

If the Director were here, she would tell him to move away and be a proper man. There’s no place for crying at the ballet. But he’s far away from America. He’s in the hands of somebody chipped away at like him. Santino says they should rest as the High Table has allowed for tomorrow, a hand gently helping John shrug off his blazer. The warmth stays on his arm, piercing through the cotton of his shirt.

The Baba Yaga retreats that night.

-  
Santino traces John’s tattoos, the light coming through the curtains helping him. Based on the curve of his fingers, John can tell which one he’s on. The compass on his left shoulder blade (sharp, long lines), the hands clasped in prayer (slower, more shaky lines), the 3rd Marine Regiment motto (twisted, short lines.) John is in the state between being awake and asleep wherein his only ground is the touch of Santino and the slight dig of his fingernail.

“Do you have any others?” Santino asks. John turns over, facing him.

“A daisy.” John sits up, brings a knee to his chest and points to the small flower on his ankle. Santino looks at it, then at John, then back again.

“Why?”

“Favourite flower.” Santino hums, a high, pleasant sound, and the phone rings. John stands, stretches, and goes to the phone, feeling Santino’s eyes on him. He picks up the phone. “Hello?”

“Jonathan,” Winston begins, “I was thinking, since it’s such a lovely day, we should reconnect. Tell me; have you ever seen the Dead Sea in person?”

“No. Can’t leave the Contential,” Santino’s eyes widen as he gestures for John to make an excuse, “need to guard Santino before he leaves for the Table.”

“Being gone for an hour or so won’t hurt anybody. Besides, you’re only punished if the High Table catches us. I’m already at the harbour; I’ve sent Charon up to watch Santino for you, and a car courtesy of the Contential should be waiting outside the lobby.” Winston hangs up before John can respond, leaving him to warn Santino as he gets dressed with the dark suit folded neatly on the nearby couch.

He hides a knife in his pocket, just in case.

He goes to the lobby, then leaves the hotel. The heat isn’t anything new to John; he was sparingly stationed to the Elder in the Saraha in times of disobedience. Besides, just as Winston said, there is a black, AC-ed limousine waiting for him. It drives to the Dead Sea, the chauffeur only giving the occasional glance back to John.

H is greeted by Winston who hands him a bottle of water. He holds it by his side. Winston glances over at John, who is scratching at the cap of his bottle, unsure of what to say. The older man smiles fondly, waves the car away, and starts, “How are you, Jonathan?”

“Okay.” The two walk towards the dock, crossing small patches of sand before reaching it. It’s has a mosaic of a floral pattern stretching along the coast, with flat, elevated turrets extending outward into the water, with stairs reaching their tops. For safety, the turrets have railings with a few benches to sit on. Considering it’s empty, and the waters are calm, John decides to walk there. Anything to isolate himself from the crowded city.

“It’s surprising to see you… grown-up. I still remember the shy, quiet kid from the Ruska Roma; my, how the time has passed.”

“You look nice, too.”

“You shouldn’t be so stressed. I merely invited you for a talk between friends. By the looks of it, it is much needed.”

“Didn’t sleep that much last night.”

Winston stares at him with an incredulous look and gives a short hum, “Ah, yes. Being on the brink of change keeps me up to. Don’t strain yourself too much, though, it makes you a different man. I still remember when you came back from the Marines. You stepped into the hotel with your backpack in hand and such red eyes, I nearly didn’t recognize you. All of that hard labour overseas did something to you, didn’t it?”

John nods, “Not anything worth mentioning.’

“How modest. I bet you have hundreds of stories to share. When Marcus came back, he would not shut up, rambling on for centuries about the locals in Hawaii,” John gives a subtle grin, classic Marcus, “but I much prefer your approach. You didn’t talk my ear off!” The step onto a turret, staring into the oblivion of stillness that came with being unoccupied.

“I didn’t have anything to say. Really. The Marines was,” John shrugs, “it was fine.”

“Well then, talk to me about this; why is it that you never returned to the Manhattan Contential once you become Gianna’s servant? You know, Cassian was always jealous of how long you both would be together.”

“The Table said I couldn’t go anywhere they didn’t permit.”

“Oh, the High Table, what funny people. I never really cared for them, I’ll abide by their laws, pray at their alters, etcetera. That doesn’t mean I have to like them, who they are.” Winston looks at the receding tides as they walk to the edge, “they stand for justice, but what is that without mercy? To them, there is only black and white. Tradition or order. Innocence or guilt. But the in-betweens, now that is where most everybody lives, including me.”

“Can I ask you something?”

“Sure.”

John hesitates, “Why did you come here?”

“If you’re talking about the Dead Sea, I suppose it’s because the calm of tides has always soothed me. The underworld is much too overwhelming, even for me. But, if you’re talking about the Jerusalem Contential, then that’s for my father,” Winston starts picking at his fingertips, peeling strands of loose skin from around his nails, “he was a simple man. Fought his whole life to get his hotel consecrated for the entire week, aside from just Sabbath. But, the High Table told him that his father and his father before him lived with it, and so things must remain the way they always were. He died of a heart attack a few years ago and left the hotel with a friend. I guess I’m trying to finish his task, albeit an impossible one.” John can see the glint of sadness in his eyes as Winston closes his mouth, too prideful to cry.

“Good that you have something to fight for.”

“Ah, and what might yours be?”

“What?”

“Your thing to fight for?”

“Nothing.” Santino. 

John leans on the ledge, hands tight around the railing as he stares outward from the clear waves. The breeze pushing his hair, the smell of salt lulling him to come closer to the sea; it’s intoxicating, the tranquillity of it. Winston wipes at his face and looks behind him, the readiness of making some joke leaving him. Then, he says, “The ballet is in town this week.” 

John immediately lets go of the railing and turns, seeing the only other person so far from the general public. When she realizes she’s been noticed, she grabs the pistol from within her blazer and shoots with a steadiness only servants could have. John grabs Winston’s arm and brings them both down behind a bench. He quickly reaches for his knife, telling Winston to stay where he is. As the woman approaches, John throws his knife, the blade landing at its hilt into the woman’s chest, just between her ribs. 

She screams, dropping the gun as she reaches for the knife. It slides quickly under a railing and into the waves. John curses under his breath, running to the woman for his knife. She rips it out and arms herself, slicing at John as he defensively raises an arm. Then, through the confusion, John shows his open palm. The woman stabs through it, a small rush of satisfaction over her features. Fear overcomes it when she can’t pull it out; John takes it from his hand and quickly grabs her neck, forcing her head down quickly onto the knife. 

He puts the knife in his pocket and, deciding that making a dinner reservation for a High Table servant would be suspicious, tosses the body into the ocean, watching as it goes into the horizon.

From behind the bench, Winston stands, “What have you done, Jonathan?”

-  
“Keep your voices low. We can’t be parading around traitors of the High Table.” Winston orders. The group is in the Contential’s basement, a dimly-lit, ostentatious bar, all seated in at a round table near the darkest corner. The dogs are underneath the table, Sofia’s hounds staying alert while Giovanni is laid over both Santino’s and John’s shoes. 

Sofia speaks first, “I don’t know why we’re having this talk. I already said I’d bring you both to my safehouse myself, end of story.”

“No. You’ll get hurt.” Santino disputes.

“I’ll already get hurt just for showing up and talking with you two. What’s another act against the Table?”

“She has a point.” John replies and Sofia flashes him a smile, one of the only she ever granted the man she despises.

Charon adds, “Sofia is an esteemed Contential manager. If she gets punished by the High Table, then the Moroccan Contential will get punished too. That is unless she doesn’t get caught. The only hope of that is if somebody else drives you to the Egyptian border.”

“My friend’ll get suspicious if you two show up with a stranger instead of me.”

“You can give me your marker then,” Charon says, and the group goes quiet. Winston furrows his brows and frowns, vehemently denying Charon’s idea with great concern in his voice. John almost feels as though he were intruding on something. “Winston, this is my choice. So long as I have the marker and a car, perhaps given by the Contential, I should be fine.”

“‘Should be’ isn’t good enough, Charon. Sofia can get the job done.”

“Exactly!”

“Sofia, you’re not transporting us and that’s final.” The small burst of power is unmistakable to John because, just as the Baba Yaga can never leave him, the heir of the Camorra can never leave Santino. Still, it vanishes as quickly as it came, leaving Santino the exhausted man John has become familiar with.

“John, what’s your say?” Winston turns away from Charon, clearly seething at the latter man’s composure.

John looks between Sofia and Charon. While his faith lies in Sofia (she seems confident in her abilities and that’s admirable to John), he knows that she means too much to Santino. But Charon means too much to Winston. Still, he needs to choose, “Charon can handle the job.” Winston lowers his head at that, fingers combing through his gray hair.

Charon nods, “Thank you, John.” From underneath the table, Santino places his hand over John’s. Sofia clenches her jaw, but accepts John’s decision regardless, telling Charon to come to her room for the marker, Lerna and Orthrus following close behind them, Giovanni whining at the lack of warmth beside him. Winston stands up after they leave, giving the bartender a gold coin before rushing off. John goes to leave.

Winston is sitting at the entrance, body in the hotel but feet on the steps. John approaches him, taking a seat at his side. The marble feels cold against his hands. Before them is the angelic statues, and maybe the heat is finally getting to John, but he swears Lady Justice is turning her head to face him, Nemesis clawing at her leg to get a good view.

“Sorry,” John says and Winston shrugs.

“I get it, Jonathan. You like Santino and that means giving him some peace of mind.” 

“Still.”

“I’m just worried about Charon. I mean, he’s scared me like this before, but driving two traitors of the High Table across the country… it’s insane.” The moonlight hits Winston and glints off of the steel band around his ring finger. Oh. “Caring for somebody through the thick and thin of it… I love him, though. And that makes all of this worth it, just so that I can wake up with him.”

“Yeah,” John replies, face shrouded in darkness and voice gentle.

Winston sighs, “Get ready for tomorrow night, Jardani.”

John doesn’t correct him.

-  
It’s closing midnight when Sofia tells the group, “I got the safe house ready,” The lobby is empty, with even the women behind the front desk retiring for the night. She reaches her hand outward, shaking John’s and bringing Santino in for a hug. “You both keep your heads up, okay? Charon, don’t stop driving until you get to the border. My friend’ll be waiting; give her the marker.” Charon produces the glinting steel of her marker and clasps his fingers around it with a curt nod.

“If any unexpected guests arrive, use the backend routes. Or, send Jonathan to the frontline.” Winston adds, hands behind his back and a grin on his lips. The tension eases then as the group laughs softly, John’s laugh more of a brief exhale than anything.

Just then, the phone rings. Not from the front desk, but from Winston’s pocket. He looks at the caller, then pauses, eyes shut as he presses speaker.

“To what do I owe the pleasure?”

“You’re harbouring the missing heir to the Camorra and an ex-servant of the High Table.” The Adjudicator's monotone voice speaks, John’s hand closing to a fist with nostrils flared, “I’ve waited long enough for them to be brought in. With the High Table’s Russian branch almost completely destroyed and our Israeli servants killed, I’m becoming exceedingly less patient.”

“You should’ve sent the call out sooner, then. How was I to know they were fugitives? Jonathan told me himself that he was still a servant.”

“Your primitive mind couldn’t comprehend that a High Table member and servant aren’t supposed to be in Jerusalem?”

“Well, when you put it that way, I sound like an oaf.”

“The High Table is being reasonable, tactical. We are Gods, what men and women of this underworld look up to. Admitting defeat, a lost member running off with an ex-servant, a massacre in Derbent, would spread mass hysteria to those who look at us as the highest authority. Think of the number of cretins prepared to use our slip on power to their own advantage. Imagine the killings on Contential grounds, the markers broken. All for two men who should've been killed by now. Doesn’t that sound imbalanced, Winston?"

“Quite. But, alas, what is mass hysteria, when those who make the laws are no better than the animals they claim to despise?”

The Administrator sighs, sips the drink in their hand and sharply inhales, “Send us John and Santino for their punishments before I set Jerusalem aflame.”

Winston looks at John, and the latter knows exactly what he sees. He sees Jardani Jovonovich, an orphan with nobody to love who met a Contential manager with the same problem. Jardani, who talked with him more than anybody in the Ruska Roma. Jardani, who could never come back once he became a servant. Not because he didn’t want to, but because he knew, they both did, that he would only be a danger to Winston. 

Winston looks at John and sees his son, “I’m sorry, but I can’t do that. Consecrated grounds and whatnot.”

There’s the sound of glass breaking on a hardwood floor, “It’s a shame, Winston. For a moment, we actually considered keeping the consecration. Expect my best, alongside the rest of that Contential you cherish so much, to come for you and whoever conspired with you. All for two men.” They hang up and Winston lowers his head.

“God help us.” He whispers, and the silence scares all of them. Sofia clenches her jaw, muttering to herself a prayer quieter than Lerna and Orthrus’ whimpers. Charon comes closer to Winston, stroking his back with a comforting hand. John holds Santino’s hand, desperately so.

Then, the announcement is made, the ring of phones loud enough to wake the entire hotel.

Deconsecration; effective immediately.


	2. Breakthrough

John’s guilt forces him to stand still as the lobby quickly fills with a crowd of tired, enraged, and armed guests. They huddle around the front desk for the concierge, yelling to speak with Ishmael. The concierge comes out, sees the group through the gaps of people and points at them. The guests turn around and charge at them with a barrage of shouts.

John grabs the pistol from his pocket and Sofia commands Lerna and Orthrus to stand guard, determined eyes peeking from her mocha brown locks. From behind them, Winston moves closer to Charon, who’s holding his own handgun. The men and women surrounding them stop suddenly, leaning forward in a battle stance; if John were to reach out, he would be able to stab one of the men before him.

The lobby stands quiet for a moment with only the sound heavy breaths and shoes stepping on carpets filling the room. John looks at Sofia, who is staving her hounds off with a closed fist. He sees a finger twitch above a trigger and shoots first, the gunshot followed by a mess of knives and fists. John takes a knee and starts shooting at legs and thighs, watching the waves of guests dropping to the floor for Lerna and Orthrus to dispose of.

The elevator opens. Ishmael. The fight stops as he goes to the front desk, kindly tells the woman to go back to her room, and faces the crowd. “Let them through.” The guests make a small path for the group to walk through, still tight enough that some shoulders are touched. They go behind the front desk and stand by Ishmael, who looks at Winston with exhausted, drooped features.

“Why’re you protecting them? They're the cowards that deconsecrated the hotel!” A voice shouts and countless fists raise. 

They quiet when Ishmael gestures for them to with a nimble hand, “They did no such thing; the High Table did.” Screaming erupts, all with a passion that John knows very well. “Quiet! Remember, it was Winston’s intentions to consecrate the hotel, right?”

“It doesn’t matter! He works for the Table just like the rest of ‘em!” Another, higher voice responds, and the balance shifts once more. John realizes then that these men and women before him, the ones willing to pack into the lobby so early in the morning, screeching until their throats are dry and raw, are doing so for one reason. Not because of their hatred for the Table, but because they are exhausted of being vulnerable. 

Then, John speaks, “I don’t.” The crowd stops then, and John repeats again and again until even he deems it to be true.

“What?” Ishmael’s voice is weak yet it breaks the silence like a wave crashing against the shore.

“I’m not a servant and Santino’s not some heir. Not anymore. We committed treason and soon the Table’s gonna send for our heads. This deconsecration isn’t anybody’s fault; it’s a punishment for harbouring us,” John closes his eyes, “I hate the Table as much as you guys.”

“See? He’s like us. They’re all like us,” Ishmael states above the muted confusion of the crowd, “we’re already up against an underworld that prays to the High Table. We can’t start killing the only people who are on our side.” The lobby falls into an agreement with one another.

“Where will you all go? The High Table is most likely sending armies as we speak and with such low manpower on our side, we’re surely going to perish.” Winston asks.

“Where we always go during times of crisis. Masada.” An old plot of land at the top of a large mountain with an affinity for being sieged. The crowd moves then, filling the staircases and elevators without ever lifting their gaze from the carpet. Ishmael turns to the group and picks at the corners of his eyes. “Pack your bags with water and guns. Lots of them.”

-  
Charon stops the car in a rough patch of sand, joining a carefully built wall of other cars surrounding the mountain. The ride wasn’t smooth, with the group keeping a lookout from every window for anything concerning. The anxiety of watching hundreds of people walking so closely to the car, each one of them likely to reach for a gun in their pocket, was enough to keep the entire group awake and alert. Sofia had Lerna and Orthrus on-guard, her closed fist eventually shaking due to cramping. Sometimes John pitied the dogs; always prepared for a fight. But they got the job done, effortlessly, so maybe their constant exhaustion was worth it.

John steps out, gives a hand to help Santino, and waits for Giovanni to waddle out. He looks at the side of the mountain, the deteriorating, rigid side. The guests walk to it anyways and the group follows. As they come closer, the crowd begins to form into a line, one person ahead of the other. Why doesn’t get answered until John steps on the only path scaling the mountain. It’s so narrow that nobody can walk beside one another.

Staring at Winston’s back, knowing that at any moment Santino could slip behind him, isn’t fun.

For a moment, he considers looking behind him. Then, somebody far ahead of him loses her footing looking off into the sun and falls. John can hear her body hit the ground with a thud. The group pauses. Somebody behind them tells them to shove on. They do.

“That woman fell,” Santino replies, voice weak from shock.

“So? Happens all the time. There’s usually a few more that fall near the top.” John trudges onward, focusing only on the path beneath him; the rocks and shards of plastic hitting the bottom of his shoe, the beige colour of the sand.

The sun burns his skin for two hours until he finally reaches the top, moving aside to let the others pass him. Some of the crowd is setting up tents, while others are using ones already there. Some are setting up rifles on the edge of the mountain already, canteens on one side and bullets on the other. At least the guests are realistic; the High Table is nothing if not thorough. If they need to kill two traitors, they will search all of Israel to find them.

Santino holds his hand, “Come. Let’s go find a tent for the night.”

-  
Ishmael orders the group to his tent after he assigns his guests positions to guard the mountain from. When John steps into the shade of the awning, he first notices how burdened the man is. He’s sleep-deprived by the bags under his eyes and the subtle drop of his head. His armpits are stained with sweat and his brunette curls are frizzy. Beside him is his spear, the sun creating a white shine off its blade.

“I’ve made an escape plan. Well, I only added to the previous manager’s,” Winston lowers his head and Charon gently places a comforting hand on his shoulder, “we can all escape to America in a week’s time so long as we follow this schedule down to the second. Jumping cargo ships isn’t the quickest way to America but still, it’s discreet. We’ll leave tomorrow, after Sabbath.”

“Tomorrow? For all we know, the Table’s gonna attack us by then.” Sofia responds, sipping her water. For aggression provokes Lerna and Orthrus, the duo baring their teeth defensively.

Ishmael has a face of disbelief, furrowed brows and a partially-opened mouth, “If my guests travel tonight, then they’ll be working on the holiest day. You all saw what happens when we get mad at one another; we start losing manpower. A day longer here is the small cost of maintaining a fair fight.” 

Sofia puts a hand on her hip, “It won’t be fair if our side can’t hold guns after sundown.”

Ishmael’s voice is gravelly as if he’s lost his patience, “We’ll leave the moment Sabbath is over. The High Table won’t find us in a day, especially since most of their Israeli assassins are with us.”

“Thank you for doing this,” Winston says, stopping the argument then and there.

“You’re one of our own. We’ve been bowing our heads at the High Table for centuries, regardless of how they treat us. At least now, we’re taking some of our power back. Even if we need to burn Masada to do it.” Ishmael then drops his head and goes back to his plans, lips moving as he reads. 

The group leaves then, going back to their duties.

-  
“How long have you been on the run?” Charon asks, stomach pressed to the ground, right eye closed by the rifle’s scope. His lips are slightly pursed in focus.

“A week,” John shrugs, looking at the ring on Charon’s finger, “when did you and Winston get hitched?” The darker man smiles at the abruptness, lowering his rifle as he chuckles.

“A few years after you had become a servant… so, thirty years ago. That reminds me, I still need to get him an anniversary gift,” John frowns. Charon gives a soft hum, “is everything okay?”

“I left for the Table. Missed a lot.”

“The High Table was, is, demanding of its servants. It isn’t your fault.”

“Feels like it… Should’ve stayed. Left Santino alone.”

“Mr. Wick, allow me to speak candidly… Winston missed you, yes. We all did. But we moved on and we changed. You did too. You’ve changed from a boy following orders to a man wanting retribution. So, no. You shouldn’t have stayed with the High Table. Because they would’ve continued to change you how they saw fit; for the worse.” He answers.

John contemplates that, “Thanks, Charon.”

“You’re welcome. Now, keep your eyes forward; I’m going to teach you how to lessen a rifle’s recoil.”

-  
The sun sets differently. Whenever John watched the sunset, it would be under a mess of buildings and street lights blocking him. But there is nothing here, only miles of sand and desert. He can actually feel the yellow heat of the sun on his face disappear. The people beside him start lowering their guns and walk away from the ledge, whispering their prayers to one another and retiring to their tents. It takes a few minutes until everybody has deserted their posts, leaving the ruins of men and their dog. Santino is pouring the water from his bottle in front of Giovanni, the dog lapping quickly at it.

“They’ll come tomorrow.” John massages the back of his neck, feeling the lingering sting of a sunburn.

“Who?”

“The Table’s army. They’ll kill us, all of us. It’s Sabbath; none of Ishmael’s guests can pick up a gun.”

“The High Table doesn’t know we’re here. In a few hours, Sabbath will be over and his guests will be as vigilant as ever,” Santino pets Giovanni, “you should get some sleep.”

“Can’t,” John stares with unblinking eyes, “I just keep… thinking.”

Santino looks up at John, “I can help with that.” John’s heartbeat quickens. Since Derbent, he hasn’t thought about anything aside from the High Table. Santino looks perfect in the light; the sun is covering only part of his face, leaving one eye in darkness. Still, it reveals so much; every eyelash and peel in his lips coated in bronze. 

A tongue starts licking at his dress pants, “What about Giovanni?”

Santino shrugs, “He knows how to turn away. Besides, he’s heard worse.”

John doesn’t ask. Instead, he nods and walks with Santino to their tent. It’s cramped, considering they're both grown men with a duffle bag and whining hound. Still, after a minute of fumbling, they find a position; John lying with his elbows propped and Santino sitting on his lap.

“Are you nervous?”

John nods, “Kinda. You?”

“Definitely,” He takes a deep breath, “that’s because I like you, John.” Love is too strong a word for such prideful, hurt men. But like, an appreciation for the other’s ideas and company, is tender. Such a soft way of speaking shows that Santino isn’t aiming for his throat; he doesn’t see a disappointment to the Table. He sees John.

John doesn’t hesitate, “I like you too, Santino.”

-  
John runs a pale hand over the fresh marks on his back, flinching at the sting. He looks at Santino, seeing the bruises on his abdomen and thighs. He considers apologizing but Santino is admiring them as if they were brush strokes on a painting. He reaches for his shirt, dries his sweat, then hands it to Santino. Beside them, Giovanni is curled, snoring in his hind leg.

“Was I okay?” John asks, his cheeks burning and ears pounding as Santino gives a soft laugh. 

He stops himself and nods, “Just like Derbent.” He moves his thin fingers through John’s hair, combing the loose strands of black away from his face. John closes his eyes, relishing in the feeling of a hand running through his hair.

“Should’ve been softer?” John gestures to the bruises and Santino scoffs, gently rubbing at the purple spots.

“Anything but. You don’t need to be worried about hurting me; I’m experienced.” Santino replies and John feels a small tinge of jealousy in his gut. “Aren’t you?”

“Not allowed to be. Servants have to vow loyalty only to the Table,” John lets Santino rest his head on his chest, cheek pressed against the flushed skin, “but, in the Ruska Roma, I did break the rules…”

“Oh, John, you casanova.” The heat of John’s body intensifies just a bit; Santino brings his face closer into the flesh with a lazy smile, finger drawing wars on John’s skin.

“She was nice. I snuck into her room one night,” John bites at his fingernail, hitting the base of it, “the Director found out and punished us both.” He takes his hand from his mouth and traces the thin scars on his chest several times.

Santino sets his spread palm over the scars, “She’s a stronza.” They both laugh then, hard enough for Santino to start coughing and John’s crow's feet to appear. It’s nice to be imperfect with somebody, to have wrinkles or birthmarks or freckles and not have to hide them. The Director would tell him… she’s not here. John doesn’t need to think of her. He just needs to focus on the wind outside, the heat of the night, where he is now.

After silence settles, John asks, “Can I ask you something?”

Santino closes one of his eyes and rubs at the lid, yawning, “Sure. You’ve sedated me, now all that’s left is to rip the information out of me.”

“Sofia.”

“It was after I ran from the High Table. I knew of Sofia before then, mainly through overnight negotiations in Casablanca. She was, is, an honest woman; said I could stay in the hotel so long as I didn’t cause any trouble for her. After a month or so, I went to her for help. I didn’t make it a marker, just a favour amongst friends. Or whatever we were. And she agreed. Because she and I were the same. She gave me a safehouse in Derbent and I gave her the chance to know her daughter would be protected; I sent Ares…” Santino stops then and forces out a dry laugh, “sorry I just… I haven’t said her name in a while.”

John stays quiet, slowly stroking Santino’s arm in comfort. Santino is already stressed, telling him that the bodyguard he cared for so deeply had been excommunicated for letting her boss, a D’Antonio sibling, run off wouldn’t be much help. He reaches out, unzips the tent, and opens it just enough to see the sky.

It’s dark, empty of stars, but it’s soothing. Something they’ve both seen before. They hold hands, fingers intertwined, and the world doesn’t seem so brutal.

-  
It’s close to sunset. The guests are standing around the ledge, bags over their shoulders and guns in their arms. The desert is clear but still, people shift from one foot to another, ready to leave. A High Table army could arrive at any moment and just as quickly kill them. John is with Winston and Ishmael, talking about the plan one more time. “We’ll leave in a few minutes. The oceans have been nothing but perfect for cargo ships this year.”

“Good,” Winston drinks the whiskey Ishmael had given him for his stress, “thank you again, for all of this.” Ishmael nods, stuffing his papers into his bag.

“You men check you have everything. We won’t be stopping until we reach the first boat, not for anything.” Ishmael explains, grabbing his spear from the table, looking at the clean blade with a sense of hope. John gives a brief salute and goes, meeting up with Santino. He’s regarding the horizon alone with tired eyes.

When John comes beside him, standing in the same silence, Santino sighs, “How did we get so far from Derbent? I don’t care; I’m just glad we did. We can figure things out in America.”

“Yeah.” Santino leans into John and kisses him on the cheek, staying there for a heartbeat. Then, one of the guests drops to the ground. The sound echoes; a gunshot. John turns to the distance and sees rows of cars driving towards the mountain. The crowd stands still, some beginning to cry. They can’t do anything, the sun still hasn’t set. But John knows that, somehow, that isn’t what keeps them from fleeing. It’s the pride of where they are, what they could’ve done. 

Soon, the cars stop at the wall surrounding the mountains, soldiers coming out and running on foot. They start going up the narrow path, which is when John drops his duffle bag and reaches for his gun. Ishmael quickly places a hand on his chest, “Not until the sun sets.”

“I-”

“Not until the sun sets,” Ishmael repeats, gesturing to the sun’s reflection on his spear.

Ten minutes pass. Twenty minutes pass. More bullets begin to fly and John starts to grow restless. He needs to fight, to feel the bloodshed of the Table’s soldiers and their violent appetites. It’s never left him, the urge to be primal and defend until he has nothing left of him. His fingers twitch in the bag, adrenaline already starting to tempt him. He needs to break the laws the Table made, enforced on him when he was weak and without purpose. He’s angry now. He’s the Baba Yaga.

Ishmael’s blade stops glinting. Sunset. “Attack!”

The guests run to their tents, grabbing their weapons, then getting into their positions. The gunshots are so loud that it sounds as if the skies opened and Nemesis herself came down just to aid in the fight. 

The group disperses. John grabs his rifle and goes to the ledge, aiming for the soldiers closest to the top. A voice shouts, “They’ve breached us!” John gives his rifle to Charon, who ditches his own, and goes for his knife. He runs for the path, where Ishmael and his men are already stabbing at soldiers with reckless abandon.

He ducks as a soldier shoots at him, hearing a body drop behind him before reaching up and stabbing at their arm. They let go of their gun and John picks it up, deciding the knife is too deep in them to be retrieved. Another soldier runs to him; he brings the barrel of his gun to their chest. The guests with him retreat as more soldiers come, some slipping off the edge into the rocky abyss below.

“John, stay down!” Sofia yells and John feels a weight pressing down on his back before jumping off his shoulders. He looks up and sees Orthrus biting at a soldier’s throat, blood spurting on the sand. He stands up and balances himself with his rifle, shooting into the crowd. A soldier charges at him and shoves him in the ribs, forcing him back and off the cliff. He clutches at the ledge, letting go of the rifle; he can’t even see where it lands. A hand wraps around his own; Charon. With a few grunts, John comes back onto the cliff.

John nods, “Thanks-”

Charon’s shoulder starts bleeding. He lets out a shout and brings his back against the ground, John rushing to his side, “I’m- I’m fine. Go find Winston, please!”

He hesitates but leaves regardless, searching for Winston. The man is hiding behind a tent, a soldier struggling by his feet. He’s crying, cheeks reddened and hands trying to dry them off. John pauses and sees that, as much as Winston has lived with the prospect of death, he’s never actually killed somebody. A heavy feeling, maybe pity, pools in John. He shoots the soldier, Winston’s shoulders hitching at the sudden noise. Then, he sits with Winston and says, “We can’t stop.”

“This is Hell, John.”

“It’s gonna stay with you.”

“Is this what the High Table made you do for so long?” Winston gestures to the soldier, now lifeless. A corpse, blue like the ones John has seen so many times before. Their contorted faces, filthy hands, everything; it’s still with him.

“Yeah.” John stands up and gives Winston once final glance before running back into battle.

Finally, the gunshots stop. Everything does. The aftermath isn’t pretty; a mess of red and guests reaching for themselves, each other, anything. Charon is clutching at his shoulder with Winston trying to stop the blood with his shirt. Sofia is holding Lerna and Orthrus, their shaking bodies covered in cuts. John can’t find Santino, not until Giovanni runs to him, his lower jaw dislodged. John follows him away from the carnage to the rugged part of the mountain, where Santino’s leg is stuck under a rock. Beside him is a dead soldier.

“He did this. I couldn’t… I can’t get out. I think my leg… It’s- I don’t know.” John goes to his side.

“This is gonna hurt.” He says bluntly and Santino nods, bracing himself. Then, John pushes the rock, Santino lets out a sob and digs his fingers into the sand. He continues crying as the rock rolls to the ledge and falls off the cliff. Santino’s leg is crooked, snapped at the knee. It could get infected any second. “Let me-”

“I can walk by myself!” Santino pushes himself off the ground, his knees buckling immediately with a snap. “Fuck!” 

“We can’t turn on each other.” John brings Santino’s arm over his shoulders and holds it, lifting him to his feet. He takes a step; Santino jumps beside him. This continues until they reunite with the group, or whatever remains of them.

Ishmael stumbles to them, supporting himself with his spear. He turns to the side and hunches over, vomiting. He wipes his mouth and says, “The plan. It’s in my bag. Get it and run before the first ship leaves.”

“You’re coming with us, right?” Sofia asks, bringing her dogs closer. 

Ishmael’s lips quiver as his hand tightens around the spear’s handle, “No, no I don’t think I can. My people are dying and… and they can’t commit suicide. A good manager is there ‘till the end.” He ignores his tears, “I hear the tides are calm.” He goes back to his guests, coming close to one and lifting his dirty blade. Santino turns away but John, he watches.

Nobody here won. That’s how it always goes on the battlefield; two sides losing more than they’ve gained, an inevitable that doesn’t make the war any shorter.

“Come on,” John says, the group looking up at him, “we need to go.”

-  
They go on the first cargo boat when night comes, veiling them. Winston helps Charon, holding him as the bleeding man struggles to walk. They search for an open container, Sofia finding one housing barrels of crude oil. Despite the smell, the group hides well within it. At one point, a man with a flashlight comes around to check for anything suspicious; a group of criminals covered in blood would count as such. John’s hand twitches, but Santino forces his head down behind a barrel. The group stay quiet, even the dogs stopping their moans, as the light shines above their heads. The light turns off, “All clear!”

With calm tides, the boat sails with only five strays and three mutts. Giovanni comes to Santino, sniffing at his leg with a cold nose. John pulls him away with a calloused hand, keeping him in his lap.

Sofia’s phone vibrates, then Winston’s. They exchange a look, one of both knowing and distress. Sofia picks up her phone first, fingers slowly bringing it from her pocket. She clears her throat, “Oh God.”

“What does it say?” Santino asks, staring at his broken leg.

“Casablanca Continental; Deconsecration effective immediately.” 

Winston reaches for his phone, “New York Continental; Deconsecration effective immediately.”

“Why would they deconsecrate the Contentials? The Adjudicator said it themselves; the High Table doesn’t want to spread mass hysteria.”

“They’ve nothing to lose anymore.” Sofia lowers her head.

“What?”

“They sent out the call for both of you. Fourteen million dollars.”

Before the group can start panicking, John asks, “Does the Bowery King still owe you?”

“You remember that? I suppose I never called in my marker,” Winston answers, letting Charon lean on him as a support.

“Here’s the plan; we’ll get to America and talk with the Bowery King. Live in the sewers.”

“The sewers? I never thought I’d go this low.” Winston sighs, rubbing his strained features.

“We lived through a slaughtering; some of us did things we can’t forgive ourselves for. If we need to live in the sewers just so that unbearable Hell is a distant memory, then so be it.” Santino states, voice hoarse and burdened and he tends to his leg. Nobody objects.

-  
“Shit,” John whispers, back against the steel wall of the container as he douses his cuts in alcohol. Giovanni gives a confused noise, waddling to the man from his place between Lerna and Orthrus. In the process, he manages to wake up Lerna, who growls before burying her muzzle back to the floor. There’s a laugh, too deep to be Sofia’s and too heavily accented to be Winston or Charon’s.

“Why are you still up?” Santino replies, covering his mouth as he yawns.

John pauses, “Could ask the same thing for you.”

“I can’t sleep. I keep thinking about what will happen once we get to America,” Santino sighs, moving closer to John, their shoulders pressed together, “I keep thinking about… everything. That tent, especially.”

They shift as John takes off his blazer, covering Santino’s shivering body with it, “Are you sick?”

He coughs, “Perhaps. But I’ll be okay, John. The Devil always is.”

There’s a pause. Then another. And finally, John sets himself free, “She did it herself.”

“What?”

“Gianna, she didn’t get shot. She wanted to leave the Table. She told me to make it look like an assassin did it so I,” John sniffles and he makes himself believe it’s somebody else, “I helped her. She told me not to tell anybody but I needed to. Because you deserve to know.”

Santino turns to John, “She couldn’t have…” He can see the whites of his eyes, wide and glossy.

“She didn’t want to be trapped by the Table. She told me… told me she was sorry. For how things ended up. With you. With everyone. Said she knew she was going to be damned.” 

He can see it so vividly; the way she stepped elegantly into the bathtub, drawing the hot water and washing her face, letting the mascara and lipstick flow into the water. You’re a good friend, Gianna reassured as she leaned her head back, and a good man. John’s hands shake, harsher than they did back then when he loaded the gun.

Santino rests his head on John’s shoulder, “Have you told anybody else?”

“No.”

“Good,” Santino sighs, “good. Preserve her dignity… you’re a good man, John.” He buries his face into John’s shoulder and starts crying, and John starts to believe otherwise.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kudos and comments are greatly appreciated; they're like the ex-Italian mob boss to my ex-High Table servant.

**Author's Note:**

> If you enjoyed this story, leave a kudos and comment! They, comments especially, give me some insight on what I've been doing well and should continue to do (in other fanfics and as a young writer.)


End file.
